The Interview
by Lobotomised
Summary: If you had fourteen minutes to interview Voldemort, what would you ask? And if you had power over him that he 'knows not' - that terrible word, love - what would you do? ONESHOT


He arrives with a large BANG in the middle of my office. I'm ashamed to say that I shriek loudly and brandish the air before me with the umbrella that I seize from the ground beside my chair. Once I recover, cowering in my desk chair, it seems as if I'm watching him on a poor resolution Muggle television; his figure is blurred at the edges and his distinctly snake-like face is scratchy and wavering before my eyes. But he's obviously 3D and that's all that matters. He's here, slightly.

"Tom –"

A flicker of emotion crosses his face, but it's gone before I can decipher it. He pulls his dark cloak tight around him and hisses.

"You dare address me so? Proceed with your questions. You have precisely fourteen minutes of my time."

I know I'm wasting time, but I can't help myself. I stare at him. I can see very little of young, handsome Tom Riddle in these features. But I convince myself that there's still something of the singularly gifted boy in there. I want so much to believe that he's good. My intense scrutiny seems to be unsettling him and he, Lord Voldemort, starts to fidget under my gaze. He's avoiding my eyes.

"Betty..." He shifts uncomfortably.

I don't know what to say. I have a list of questions in front of me, but they all seem pathetic now. What does one ask the Dark Lord in a fourteen minute interview? This man has done so much. I can't seem to slip into Betty Braithwaite, esteemed Journalist for the Daily Prophet. She'd ask, "So, Mr Voldemort, why are you the way you are?" But, me, Betty, the girl who loved the boy he used to be, stammers stupidly, "Why, Tom?" as if he'll know what I'm talking about.

Tom throws his head back, staring at the ceiling, again avoiding my eyes. He takes a long time before he answers in a gentle, yet desperate voice, eyes still on the light fixture. "You don't understand, do you, Betty? And they," he gestures generally outwards, "will never understand, for I can tell no one but you of this. But then, why would I want to tell anyone? I'd be Lord Voldemort, the greatest wizard of all time and the man with the tragic story. I don't want that! I am great and terrible without their pity." He draws himself up proudly. "With it, I'd be great, terrible, and a sad mess." He laughs bitterly.

Tom hasn't met my eyes in all the time he's been here, but now he does. His hologram – whatever it is – steps toward my desk, and braces its hands on the top of my inbox. His eyes, colourless in this projection of his physical self, bore into mine. I shrink back fearfully, reminding myself that I have heard these same eyes to be blood red. This is no longer Tom Riddle, my Hogwarts sweetheart.

He pulls back; he's noticed my fear. Self disgust wars with pride upon his face and I know he hasn't felt the first emotion in a long time. He can see himself through my eyes though I have said nothing.

He begins talking. He seems to be talking more to himself than to me, but I'm listening closely.

"There's nothing, _nothing _worse than being worthless. But no matter what they say, you create your own worth. You ... you have to pave your own path. Those who aren't born into privilege and who, in the eyes of the world, contribute nothing, amount to nothing and basically waste the world's already limited space, have to make something of themselves. That's all there is."

He's rambling now, but he seems not to notice. He's simply chasing a train of thought. My quill is poised over my paper out of habit, but I remember the terms of our agreement. No one shall know.

Tom goes on talking slowly, with emphasis, rolling the words around his mouth. "People will not see that orphan boy and automatically think, 'I think there's some worth in that little, seemingly worthless boy,' They'll see him and think, 'Poor thing. But I'm glad I don't have to look after the little nobody.' Then they'll walk off."

It is my turn to shift uncomfortably. It's impossible to describe how unbelievably strange it is to sit here, listening to him talk with such gentle emotion plain on the face that brings nightmares to young children all over the country every night.

"That's how it was with me, don't you see, Betty? Born to a pathetic excuse of both a mother and a witch, who hadn't the courage or the strength to keep herself alive for her son! Do you think that doesn't hurt, pathetic though the situation is, full grown man and powerful wizard though I am? If nothing else, the very fact that I was _his_ blood should have been enough. Him and his vile, dirty blood." Voldemort is staring with murder in his eyes at my Persian rug. I shrink back, imperceptibly, I hope. I can hear my heart ticking in my ears.

In a staticky blur he swoops down on my desk again and rattles the wood with a spider-like grip. "Do you see? Do you understand?" The slit of a mouth curls with malice. "Born of muddied blood, straight into an orphanage," Voldemort spits. My body is rigid – I cannot begin to muster the nerve necessary to reprimand him. The angry twist of his features reminds me that this is the most dangerous creature in existence.

Slowly, he pulls back, continues. His face softens again and now Tom's imploring me to understand. "If that doesn't kill any of the natural esteem that is originally had in order to keep humans from instant suicide at the bleakness of this world, I don't know what will. I was nothing to them, though I knew I was different. I felt power." I frown slightly at his use of the word 'humans.' Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I am a little surprised at this admittance to being human. But that surprise on my part only reminds me of how far removed I am from him now.

Pride is once again at war on his face, but with sadness and nostalgia. I cannot keep up with his sudden changes in personality.

"I knew magic from a young age," Tom says, starting to pace slowly, "and in the control I found over others, over the objects that moved as I wished them to, in the pain I could cause, there was power. Worth. I paved my own way, Betty. Where others are comfortable in their bland existences, where those who were born into their worth are happy with less, I, born of nothing, made myself that of which they can't even dream. Now they can't speak my name without shuddering!" And he's the Dark Lord again; arrogant and sure of his own glory. He seems to no longer be aware of my presence. He's striding around my office now, feverishly pacing the small space with a manic gleam in his eyes.

"They will understand. Witches and wizards will one day see the wisdom in my words and the opportunities my new empire will present for all. A world ruled by us! Where we have complete power! No one who follows me will be worthless. There will be no more Pure Bloods made to feel less than their natural worth."

It's like a campaign; he's telling me why I should 'Vote Voldemort'; he's trying to make me understand, to convert me to his cause. Am I just another recruit, I wonder? I'm not sure he really remembers me any more. But I can't understand him either. Is this really an evil, amoral man, or just a lost little boy with abandonment issues? I shake myself awake. Don't let him fool you, I tell myself firmly. He was charming and slick even in youth. I know that he is all facades. But he seemed so genuine before, I think. So young and boyish.

"And though they fear me, they also despise me. For what? I ask myself." He shakes his head in confusion and despite the terrible face, he's the little orphan boy who can see that nobody loves him. I want to yell out to that little boy, 'I'll love you!

He goes on. "Am I not doing something for the benefit of all wizardkind? Mine is not a selfish existence. I wish to build my empire for those whose worth, for centuries, has been trampled over by those of the pathetic minority, Muggles. Witch burning! Do you remember that? I've read the books, studious little wizard that I was and know how many pureblood lives were wasted! They don't deserve pity."

Tom doesn't speak for a while. He's simply a silent, watchful shadow taking up most of my floor space. He's silent for so long that I feel I need to break the quiet. I glance at the list of questions in front of me for something to say.

"What about Harry Potter... Tom?" I'm embarrassed by the weakness of my voice, but I've heard his presence tends to do that to people. His eyes slide closed and he smiles. Voldemort laughs softly.

"That stupid boy. I didn't set out for the blood traitors' house that Halloween with the intention of killing them. But, Harry Potter presented a risk and so I had to take care of him, at whatever cost. One life in exchange for a million; a billion others! Surely, that's reasonable." He laughs at something he's thought. "For the greater good! That was Dumbledore's motto, was it not? The principle, of course, can be excused for him, but not for me." The hologram stalks towards me and I can't tell if that last line was a question or a statement.

"Betty?" Tom whispers intensely. I cower back in my seat, because that face is moving so close. The eyes narrow, and with a jerky motion Voldemort sweeps half my possessions off of the desk. Then quickly, he covers his face with a long fingered hand and snarls, "Do people not realise that I did _not_ choose to look like a blasted snake?" I almost laugh. Almost. "That dratted Wormtail muddled the potion..." he trails off. "Sure, beauty's only skin deep, but having no nose _is _kind of depressing." His voice is petulant and childish. If the situation wasn't so dangerous, I'm sure I'd find the words comical. Maybe there's more of Tom Riddle in there than I'd thought. He's so sad all of a sudden. But then the hand drops and Voldemort's back.

"Ah, vanity." He eyes me closely, his thin lips curling wryly. "One of those pathetic Muggle faults. They've polluted us. I only seek perfection, you see," he gestures calmly with a careless hand as if we were discussing the weather. "I only seek to return us, those worthy of magnificence, to the days when we were powerful."

He's watching me closely. I stare at some point over his shoulder, waiting for him to turn back in to Tom.

But I hear Voldemort snarl quietly and I raise my eyes slowly, because I'm scared of what I'll see on his face. He's standing with his back against my office door and the look on his face is one I'll never forget. It'll forever stain my memory; it's tattooed under my eyelids. He clicks his middle finger and thumb together and his figure becomes solid flesh and blood and I can see his red eyes. Then suddenly Voldemort's there and he's grabbing the tops of my arms, shaking me. I'd scream, but my throat seems to have closed over. I'm squeezing my eyes shut, trying fruitlessly to pull my arms from his angry fingers, but his body is rigid and unrelenting, full of pent up fury.

"You!" he screeches. "You – you - What foul spell have you got on me? How are you making me feel this? I am not sorry! I have no regrets! I am Lord Voldemort!" he screams and shakes me violently. I'm physically paralysed with fear and I can't help the sob which escapes me.

All of a sudden he's gone. I feel him snatch his arms back and he draws in a sharp breath of air. He snaps his fingers, vanishing, replacing himself with the hologram again. I pull my knees up to my chest, rocking in the silence, sobbing quietly. After a while, once I'm breathing more evenly, I uncover my face and peer around my fingers. Tom is slumped in the chair across from me. His head's cradled in that spidery grip and he's deathly still, though his image is wavering terribly. I regard him warily for a while, hiccupping every now and again, terribly shaken, with my hand securely fisted around my wand – I would be foolish to not guard myself, even now, when he looks so fragile. He glances up slowly.

"Betty?"

I shrink back into my seat though Tom's voice is gentle. I raise my wand, ready to defend myself if need be. I hear him rise from the chair.

"Betty… I'm – I'm sorry. I – "

His hand reaches out and I can't help the involuntary flinch. He drops it.

"I have more power than all the Muggle armies in the world. I've killed more wizards than I can count. I'm strong, Betty! Strong. But with one word… one look from you and I can feel more than I ever have." He scrubs his hand across his face. A very human mannerism. "How do you do this?"

Tom's voice is centuries old. Weary beyond belief.

I stare intently at my stapler and from somewhere about him a timer pings. Relief floods through me. "Time is up," I gasp. My small office seems smaller than ever with his hulking presence over my desk. He backs away and I see him reach for his wand. I assume he's going to leave. His pale face is like a sheet of parchment now and his eyes burn with sadness. Remorse, is it? After all this, could he try for some remorse?

"Goodbye, Betty," he says quietly, voice strained. "Don't forget, please. Think of me and remember what I – what used to be."

I nod stiffly and for a moment this clown is simply a bald Tom Riddle with a badly made mask covering his nose. He's human, here, in the bad light of my office, with a sad smile on his face.

And then he's gone. Nothing lingers after him.

It is not until hours later, when I finally rise from my chair that I see the photograph on the floor, in the precise place Tom Riddle vanished. A young, handsome boy with dark hair smiles down at the pretty, laughing girl with crinkly eyes in his arms, captured forever in the small, curling square of parchment.


End file.
